Five Days
by SmileyBearStories
Summary: The Red Hood had spent a productive night patrolling Gotham and was ready to wind down in the best way he could think of. Gotham sends her bugs to ruin his plans. He'll lose his chance at his dreams for five days, along with some blood and some dignity.
1. Prologue

After an action-packed night of cathartic release upon the scum of Gotham alongside Nightwing, Jason was keen to go home and crash in his king size bed with a beautiful girl beside him. He'd been headed toward that goal when he was delayed. It was difficult for the large man to conceal his presence, so Red Hood was ready when he approached. It was the man's compatriot he wasn't prepared for. The quiet man seemed to approach out of nowhere and drew him into a fight.

His quarry with the thin assailant, distracted his attention from the larger, slower man who seemed to hold no interest in fighting, until that man grabbed him. Tree trunk arms encircled his body, leaving his feet dangling uselessly above the ground and squeezing the air from his lungs. Yet every gasp drew in halothane from the cloth across his face. He shortly lost is squabble with consciousness.

His arousal was sharp with the sting of cold air biting at his bare skin. The next thing to register was the pain, an unbearable, muscle exhausting ache in his shoulders, and as he tried to shift his arms to relieve the numbness, thick stiff bands scratched at his wrists wearing the skin raw and leaving it throbbing. He couldn't lower his arms to relieve them. His foggy brain was slowly turning cogs into place, putting together some semblance of understanding for the niggling alarm in the impending background thoughts. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, noting the scents; hospital disinfectant. The taste on is tongue is clinical and chemical. So his eyelids flutter as opals strive to grasp wakefulness.

The flooding light strikes right through to his brain the minute his eyelids lift and he quickly closes them again with a growl. Adjustment takes time and slowly he's able to expose his eyes to the blinding assault and clear them enough to see past the intense beams of fluorescence.

The lights, he discovers, are amplified by the crisp white of the walls, reflecting the bulb's emissions to the centre of the room like sheet blinding from a page on a sunny day. The only break in this white sheet is a window; one he can't see out of, but would bet his life that he can be seen through. Which draws his attention back to his predicament.

His eyes hang down to see his skin exposed only his black trunks remaining clung to his flesh. Looking up, his eyes roll over the ropes tied tightly around his wrists and the chains hanging him from ceiling. Like a storm rocking the shore, the consternation in his subconscious overwhelms his brain. He is being detained.

* * *

Thank you for reading. I do not own Jason Todd/Red Hood. This story will have more chapters.


	2. Day 1

Adjusting to the blinding environment takes time. It is an overload for his vision, especially with the dull throb of his head in the background. He rolls his head back, closing his eyes and assessing himself for any other injuries, finding none. Then he slowly exposes himself to the harsh ambient light. He is rather vulnerable, with no weapons to speak of, putting himself at a disadvantage. He assesses the room for escape, imagining the window is far less breakable than it may appear. The door provides an escape opportunity though, supposing someone enters through it. For that, he needs to get off his hook.

He tests his restraints. Flopping on the end of the chain like a fish on a hook, but head snapping up when the door clicks open. He isn't facing the door, leaving him waiting vulnerably for his guest to reveal themself to him. Fortunately for him, the man is willing to walk around to his front and face him.

"The mighty Red Hood," the man ponders, looking Jason up and down.

"Don't look so mighty in your underwear," although he can't deny the Red Hood is toned, built like a fighter.

Jason gives the unfamiliar man a once over as well. He thought he took the biker look too far, but this old guy was decked in leather head to toe, bandana over his grey hair to boot. Icy blue eyes examined him with interest. The man was probably equal to him in height, although it was hard to judge such when you're dangling, feet swaying a foot above the ground. Despite his age, the man remained well toned and trained.

* * *

Daniel Howlett had worked with Cisco Winterfell many times and trusted the business man. When he'd been told his next job was the Red Hood, he'd been surprised, almost disbelieving. He had to do another circle around the vigilante after getting into the cell with him. Two pairs of blue eyes met, sizing each other up, weighing their merit, although Daniel definitely thought he had the advantage. Red Hood was still looking at him like a meal, rather than a threat. He'd expected that.

Red Hood wasn't someone he'd especially wanted to mess with. Rumours said he was a zombie Robin. Others said he was associated with the bat. Either way, that spelt stay away. He'd expected the man to be toned, strong, thick skinned. He was prepared for this to be tough. He realised his usual methods were unlikely to be effective on such an opponent. He usually dealt with traitorous little henchmen and snitches, not the caped kind. Not to mention his style was up that bat framed alley of 'hit 'em 'till they squeal'. He imagined this man could take a fair beating before he'd start to crack. Probably wouldn't even talk before he passed out. He'd test that.

What was surprising to Daniel, was the red hair. Bat brats tended to tote black hair, unless they were girls. Yet here was a man with red hair. It was somewhat broken, the white streak at the front obvious, but the tinges of black through the strands less so. Maybe it showed the man was as broken as his hair colour. That Daniel could work with. He rubbed his hand over his knuckles, testing their surface, while a smirk grew on his face. That he could work with.

Jason's assessment of the man was accurate. He was the heavy hitter; 'keep punching until they talk' type. A theory confirmed when after testing his knuckles he threw a straight punch to Jason's abdomen. The chains showed more suffering than Jason did, rattling as the force applied to their charge made them shake. Jason's face remained impassive. This guy could hit him until he died, he wouldn't relent.

Daniel shook out his knuckles; as firm as he'd expected. It was more like hitting a punching bag than a flesh bag. He might need to work this one over a little harder, tenderise him out a bit. He tried a couple more punches, just seeing where they got him. Abdomen was relatively ineffective, kidney punch got a jolt, but nothing substantial enough to break the man down, kick to the ribs got a gasp and a crack with a ragged breath, punch to the face got a head bounce, a disgruntled sound and a waterfall of blood, but still the man's face remained challenging. He needed to work out something else.

The boss had asked him to interrogate the man. Get everything he could to clear the boss's name with the GCPD and get Red Hood suffering. Yet he didn't think he'd be successful getting all that out of this brick wall of a person. So he figured he'd jump right to the chase and ask the most important thing first. Bring this all back to its beginning.

"A little girl…" Daniel mumbles, winding up another punch, surprised when despite not touching him, Red Hood tenses. That was interesting information. Maybe he needed to break him down and explore that reaction.

"You a hero?" Daniel questions, fist slamming into flesh as more of a thought provoking action than actual torture method with such a tolerant victim.

Red Hood swallows, working his tongue around his mouth before testing his voice, the sound rough and dry, "What do you think?"

"Heroes are meant to save little girls, aren't they?" Daniel quizzes, rolling his wrist after that punch jolted it.

Jason lifts himself up to roll his shoulders in an uncomfortable reaction. He's picturing a pair of eyes staring at him with unadulterated joy; the sand meets up with the ocean in a beautiful setting. Yet, he won't speak a word of it. He's going to let this man talk, tell him who the girl is.

"You let her die," Daniel rolls the words, eyes turning down to the ground. He'd only seen her once. Big brown eyes full of curiosity. A gentle smile. Long brown hair that flew around her as she ran and giggled. His tone turns to rage, "You killed her!"

The next punch is far rougher, the hits becoming angered, painful, fuelled by emotion. Jason feels them now. His groans of pain echoing off the white walls and his breathing becoming harsh, lungs scraped by jagged bone fragments every time he attempts to breathe.

"She was nine!"

"She was innocent!"

"She didn't stand a chance!"

"You killed her!"

It turns out Daniel was right. Red Hood would pass out before he ever gave in to his punches. The vigilante hangs limply from his chains, eyes unfocused and fighting unconsciousness. Every breath he takes, makes his abs squeeze tight and his lips gasp as though trying to steal all the air in the room. Daniel shoves bloodied fists in his pockets, the right one colliding with a syringe. He had forgotten the boss had given it to him. Her rolls it in his fingers before giving in to the temptation it leaves.

He draws out the syringe, pulling off the needle's cap. He roughly grabs the disorientated Red Hood's hair, shoving back his head, and exposing his pale neck, the needle shoved into the white flesh. A flush of crimson in the clear liquid confirms its mark and the cold solution flushes up Red Hood's neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

"How could you kill Claudia, sicko?" Daniel tosses Red Hood's head back and releases him. The syringe is thrown on the floor and he storms out with a slam of the door.

The liquid floods his brain with memories. Frightened brown eyes begging him to be saved. High pitched screeches. The ear drum shattering fire of the gun. The agonised scream. The falling brown hair. Jason screams.

_"Mr Hood, tell Daddy I love him."_


	3. Day 2

When Jason comes to, it is in a dizzying whorl of flickering memories and the tightness of a chest that can only be equated with awaking from a nightmare.

Claudia Winterfell. Her father was a sick man. A business man involved in marketing. A side hobby in the child sex slave trade. Obviously Red Hood had wanted to shut him down. It had been nearly a year ago. Yet Jason remembered the night as if it were yesterday. He'd gotten into a scuffle with some of Winterfell's lackeys. He thought it would be easy to take them out, until one of them grabbed the little girl as a hostage.

Claudia Winterfell. Jason knew her from his research about Cisco Winterfell. He'd seen a picture of her and put it aside in his memory in case. He'd never planned Winterfell's body guard to use her as a hostage. Jason knew that Cisco adored his daughter, and would never want any harm to come to her. That made the guard a sitting duck. The plan had misfired though, and somehow, Claudia had been on the receiving end of a bullet. Jason had tried his hardest to protect the innocent girl, and yet she'd still fallen. The guard who fired, shot himself in the head immediately; no one hurts Cisco Winterfell's little girl.

Claudia Winterfell. Jason would never forget that name now. Her last words 'Mr Hood, tell Daddy I love him', stumbling from her lips as he ran with her cradled in his arms. He'd headed for the nearest hospital, but by the time he got there, it was only a corpse in his arms. He'd never forget that young life he'd failed to save. Even if he had handed his evidence on Cisco Winterfell to the GCPD, he'd also anonymously left a note in Winterfell's mail with his daughter's final words.

Claudia Winterfell. A little girl's death he'd been forced to relive from a few hints and a good dose of truth serum. Yet it also gave him information. If his intended torturer had known Claudia enough to feel that much anger from her death, then he was likely close to Winterfell. Which meant Winterfell was the orchestrator of this imprisonment, and Winterfell was out for revenge. It gave Jason essential information about his opponent. Information a good torturer would never have given out before acquiring something in return from his victim.

Despite the nightmarish nausea induced by the haunting memories, a grin grew on the Red Hood's face. One point, Red Hood. Winterfell, none.

The grin was quickly wiped away when the door behind him clicked open. He expected the burly man from the day previous, but it was not a man at all that had come to see him.

* * *

Sheila Meyers spent enough time in Gotham, that she knew who Cisco Winterfell was. She chose not to associate with him. Despite the service she offered, she had boundaries and all her clients were of legal age. He wasn't interested in that service though, thankfully.

She'd still been tempted to turn down his offer, until he told her the name of her victim. Red Hood. The offer to get up close and personal with the vigilante was delectable. She'd admired the man from a distance partly due to fear, partly due to some untouchable god-like idolisation. Her vivid imagination could only take the image the tight suit provided and fantasise what he'd look like without it. Now she'd get to see that masculine deity in all its glory.

She opened the door and walked in, heels clicking on the linoleum. Even from behind he was ethereal. His back muscles tensed, every fibre defined across the toned surface and his head turned over his shoulder to watch her. His swirling blue-green eyes were heated with a predatory glare. It made her squirm with excitement. She moans imagining those piercing eyes looking down at her.

Then she walks around him and can't help the deep pleasured moan. He has broad, strong shoulders with carved muscular arms. The muscles writhe as his fists clench and grab at the chain holding him up. He has taut pecks and forget six pack, every abdominal muscle is excessively defined. A tight V-line leads down under his boxer briefs, which does nothing to conceal his wealth. Topped off with thick thighs that could kill a man.

He watches her calculatingly and every bulging muscle stretches, loosening up for an attack. He's feisty and fierce. Despite his situation, he's still behaving like she's the victim. He's a wild animal. A thrill runs through her.

She looks him over again, and gulps. He growls deep in this throat. Oh, she wants to touch those sculpted abs. To tame the beast. She reaches out a tentative hand, retracting her fingers hesitantly when he tenses. Then she presses her fingers against the chestnut skin and her throat releases her pleasure. He's so perfect.

Shame that's not what she's here for.

"The Red Hood," she muses, then drags her hand down his chiselled abs, "Tell me, what's your real name handsome?"

"Red Hood," he growls back, much like a caged wolf biding its time for the chance to attack.

"So is that first name Red, last name Hood?" she chuckles, starting to pace around him, "Mummy dearest really named you Red Hood? Such a shame, I thought you'd have a real name underneath all that. So what is it? Paul? Jacob? Andrew?"

"First name Red, last name Hood," he repeats her words with a cocky smirk.

Her lips curl in a snarl. He can still act cocky in this situation. Yet, somehow, that is really hot. It tingles her sadistic instincts and makes butterflies flutter in her stomach with excitement. She wants to devour him, but that isn't the service she's been hired for. She lifts her cat-o-nine-tails and slowly swirls the whips so they brush his thigh flicking him lightly rather than inflicting pain.

"So tell me, Red," she rolls the whip again, "Are you a hero?"

She watches him intently, hoping for any sign in his facial expression or even his muscles, for any indication that question means something to him. Instead, he is just blank; staring. Her brows furrow and she stops walking to focus on him, waiting for something. She snaps the whip through the air and the crack at least lifts his eyes to focus on her.

"Are you a hero?" she asks again, the annoyance toning her voice. She'd wanted to use the term to inflict pain. There was no way a man like the Red Hood was a hero, not in anyone's eyes. Yet, did he think he was? Could she twist that to her cause; twist that to Claudia Winterfell's case. She also had a genuine curiosity as to what he thought he was, and he still hadn't answered the question.

She growled, heels clunking as she steps forward, cat-o-nine-tails raised and brought down quickly across toned thighs to make his whole body jolt. Another harsh flick driving the leather through the other thigh. "Ignorance will be punished!" she warns before repeating the question, "Are you a hero?"

He scoffs, "Don't you already know the answer to that?"

She is torn. His insolence stirs her anger on the surface, but deep down his confidence makes her intestines squirm. She's fighting wanting to beat the obedience into him, leaving her personal scars on his already marred flesh. Pitting it against the desire to be ravished by such a lavish beast. She turns away from him, hugging herself, massaging her own arms to regain her control. She's here to obtain information in the way only she best knows how. She is not here to find debauched pleasure.

With a deep sigh she releases herself and returns to face him. His opalescent eyes are studying her, trying to deduce her withdrawal. Perhaps trying to learn all her most sinful secrets purely from a few actions. It's enough to make her shiver under such an intense gaze. She flicks out the whip and turns away, letting her heels click as she stalks away, hips swaying. She can't look at his face without unleashing internal warfare. She can't keep a straight face under those carnivorous eyes.

She stops and turns to face his back. There are a reasonable number of scars there, from knives and such, and the muscles are still carefully crafted. From behind though, he's just a man, and his back is a blank canvas awaiting her personal brand of art.

She thinks about the questions Winterfell wanted answers to. The list was vague, implying he was more obsessed with reflecting his anguish onto the inflictor, than really obtaining wisdom. Family was a question that had been brought up, although she figured the red bat plastered across his chest painted that portrait. Winterfell must have wanted to know if there was a daughter, or perhaps girlfriend, whose life he could brutally rip from existence before the helpless man's eyes, in the way he believed his own daughter had been brutalised.

Sheila's interest was from a more perverted perspective. It always electrocuted her with adrenaline to know there was an unsuspecting girlfriend alone in an otherwise empty bed, oblivious to the ecstasy her boyfriend was taking from a strange woman. So she decided to probe.

"Do you have family?" she presses a finger against a scar on his back, tracing the mark and drawing intimacy from knowing it's presence.

He flinches from the cold finger unexpectedly contacting him, then snarls, "Guys like me don't have family."

"Hmm," she traces an alternate scar, sarcastically adding, "I get it, Batman works alone."

"You can try to mess with the bats," he warns, "But you'll find a bat out of hell."

She lets off a brief humourless laugh, "Then tell me. You got a girlfriend that we can cheat on?"

He snarls, "I don't cheat."

She lights up, tugging at the band of his briefs, "So there is a flame in your life?"

"Only you, darling Sheila," he teases, and she can hear the cheeky grin in his voice.

"Naughty," she flicks him playfully with the cat-o-nine-tails. Again torn between concern that emhe knows/emwho she is, yet also thrilled that he emknows who she is/em. This is too painful for her. He's tearing her apart too much. He's got her on the fence. She's teetering between fear and satisfaction. Business and pleasure. Sadism and masochism. Torturer and escort. She was hired to be in control and she needed the ball back in her court. She need to take command. She needed to make the Red Hood squirm. To hear him scream. To know that she was dictating the circumstances. She wanted to watch those toned muscles tense and twitch in agony.

She raised her whip and brought it down across his back. His body jolted, back muscles flexing and chains rattling. She laughed. That was exactly what she needed. She swung it again across his back. The knotted leather rips through tight flesh like a grinder. A third strike. A fifth. Blood is starting to dribble down his back, carving its way through the mountains she's ripped up and the gulley's she's torn. She pants, crazy grin lighting up her eyes. She feels powerful again. She controls where this is going.

She steps back for a moment to admire. She's on top of the world again. She's giddy with the power trip. She takes in the marks she's carved in his flesh; the blood trails it marks his back with. She notices the pained tremors that roll across his shoulders. She's proud of her work and now knows she's in control.

Having calmed her wild emotions, she goes back to strategy. Asking a question of Winterfell's desire, then rewarding his silence with a brutal whip. She even has the confidence to walk around and face him again. He's hanging limply, yet all his muscles are tense, bracing for the next lashing. She loves the way it exacerbates the lines they form along his taut skin. His head is hung, teeth gritted, but he raises his eyes to meet hers as she faces him. The glare is searing.

She moans. This man makes her quiver. He's so wild. Despite his body betraying the pain he is in, he still has the gall to devour her. She definitely wants time alone with the Red Hood again, just on her own terms.

A buzz echoes through the blank room, signalling that her time is up. She sighs her disappointment, but slips a business card from her pocket and slips it beneath the band of his briefs.

"Call me sometime, hunky," she pats his abdomen, one last lingering trace of those perfect abs, before she turns for the door, sauntering out.

With the door shut and the room icily empty, Jason relaxes, wincing as it tugs at the raw wounds on his back. He takes deep breaths, internalising the pain and allowing himself to remain focused on the bigger picture. Just like Batman taught him when he was still wearing scaly greens. He had to internalise the pain, harness it and use it as his weapon. He needed to plan his escape.


End file.
